The first time my daughter suffered a panic attack, she was 11. It was terrifying. She was hyperventilating, gasping for air and shaking uncontrollably, as tears streamed down her face and her stomach heaved.
All because she had worn the wrong soccer jersey to her weekly practice.
I?d never witnessed a panic attack before. I had no experience with anxiety. But just as I had kissed her booboos better in the past, I wanted to make this all better for her too. Driving home to retrieve the proper jersey would fix everything, right" She said it would. But as for fixing the root of the problem, I wasn’t so sure. Deep down, very quietly, my mom instinct was telling me not to do it?that I’d be feeding a monster, and while that may quiet it, it wouldn’t destroy it. So I listened to my inner voice. I told her I wasn’t going to get the jersey. Can’t lie?she cried, and begged, and then cried more. But I stood strong and stayed calm, rubbing her back and repeating, “I’m right here. You’re okay,” until the panic had run its course. Then, together we walked onto the field and I explained to the coach that my daughter had worn the wrong jersey. He smiled, assured her it was no big deal, and encouraged her to join the rest of her teammates dribbling soccer balls around pylons.
Panic attack number two occurred a few months later, the night before her school?s annual cross-country race. My kid loves running. In previous school year...